


Five Times Abbie Tries to Teach Ichabod to Drive, and the One Time Nothing Explodes

by blasphemefatale (letterstonorah)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterstonorah/pseuds/blasphemefatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warnings: mention of alcohol</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The First time is Always Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mention of alcohol

It's 3 o'clock in the morning, they're on the run, and her hand is gashed thanks to the Headless Douchebag. The full moon shines obnoxiously bright. Abbie's trying to figure out when her life became a redux of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, except she's not the Slayer, and has no powers, and she's probably going to have to go to the ER. Shouldn't being the Second Witness of God come with super strength and super healing, or at the very least, bigger guns? 

"You're going to have to drive," Abbie says between panting breaths, hopping into the passenger side of Some Dude's Hummer. (Poor Some Dude, by the way. He'd been, like many of Sleepy Hollow's rural inhabitants, racist and a redneck, but did he really deserve death by decapitation over a six pack of Miller Light on his stained, floral-printed sofa?). 

"This can only end in disaster," says Ichabod, but Abbie has already tossed him the pilfered keys. 

"You've watched me enough times to get the hang of it," she assures him, even though she's actually pretty sure Ichabod's going to kill both of them via vehicular manslaughter. Peeking out the window, she sees Headless Ghost Guy approaching at a slow, leisurely gait. 

"Right," Ichabod says. "This bit goes into this bit. Then you turn it. Then magic happens." He jams the key into the ignition, and voila, the Hummer roars to life. 

"Okay, now press the left-most pedal, and change the gears to drive with this doohicky here." Abbie locks all the doors then crawls into the back over the seat, bites her lips when she sees Ichabod glance not-even-a-little-bit-furtively at her ass before focusing on the wheel again. 

"Doohicky? Is that word German in origin?" 

"French, I think," says Abbie, then sees what she's been looking for in the back, the Redneck Trifecta, otherwise known as a crossbow, non-specific brown liquor in an unmarked bottle, and a Bible (New International Version). "Drive!" she shouts at Ichabod, as the Headless Horseman gains on them, only a few feet separating him from the rear window. 

But the message doesn't get through quickly enough. The Horseman plunges his ax through the glass, shattering it with a single swipe. Abbie screams, backing up into the seat, crossbow in hand. It takes everything to ignore the throbbing in her palm, but with seconds to spare, she shoots a bow into the Horseman's chest. The force of it pushes him back a few feet, and by now, Ichabod has slammed the pedal. 

It's -- very interesting, his driving. What he lacks in the ability not to zig-zag, he makes up for with intense speed. Splinters of broken glass fly into Abbie's face. She clutches her wounded hand. She hears the blast of a gun, and the impact of the bullet on the underside of the car. Four more shots follow in quick succession.

"Abbie, are you with me?" Ichabod asks, voice shaking. 

"Not for much longer if you don't do something. Listen, what would General George Washington do?" she says, and it's probably not the time to be cutesie and ironic, but whatever. The smell of gasoline fills the air. Fuck, Headless Bro shot the tank. 

That's when Ichabod jerks the car around, sending her flying in the back seat, and faces the Horseman. They barrel toward him, running over him with a solid thud. 

"After beheading, the next logical step is running him over," says Ichabod, braking the car to a full stop. Again, whiplash. Abbie groans.

Ichabod hops out of the driver seat and helps Abbie out of the Hummer, an arm around her waist. They limp together away from the wreckage.

"Not bad, for your first time," says Abbie, though she wishes she hadn't, as it comes out sounding ten times more suggestive than she'd intended. Damn Ichabod and his damn puppy eyes. 

When they hear the Horseman behind him, dragging himself from up under the car, they know what to do. 

Ichabod takes the matchbook out his pocket, flicks a light, and tosses it toward the wreckage. 

It's beautiful, kind of, the burst of orange light as the Hummer, and the Horseman, go up in flames.

"I feel like this should be symbolic," says Abbie.

"A symbol of our growing bond in our journey as witnesses," Ichabod returns. That's not what she'd been thinking at all, and she's not sure how a fire in the middle of a grass plain has anything to do with bonding. But she goes with it.

"Yeah," she says. "Mhm." 

They walk the ten miles back to town, and by the time they reach Main Street, at least one Starbucks is open.

"Please, Abbie?" he asks. 

They end up picking up a dozen scones (pumpkin, vanilla, maple nut) and some coffee before heading to the Emergency Room. It's the Dawn, and for today, everything is all right.


	2. Homeward

He should be embarrassed, he supposes—a man of of his stature so dependent upon a woman. What would his comrades in arms think? What would the Lord God say? Does He not call upon the strong to protect the weakest of His flock? 

Abbie is not weak, but she’s small, and vulnerable. Ichabod knows pain when he sees it, and he sees it in her.

“All right, do the checklist,” she says, slamming the passenger-side door as she buckles in. Her eyes are puffy, the whites faintly pink, and he knows that she slept restlessly last night. The tell-tale signs on her face aside, he’d heard her toss and turn through the ‘baby monitor.’

It was a precaution, nothing else, a way for them to keep tabs on each other with the Horseman at large. Being able to wake Abbie from often violent nightmares only further validated the purchase in his mind.

“Let’s see. First, seat belt,” Ichabod says, and clicks his into place. “Ignition. Brake pedal. Gear shift. Mirrors. Drive.” He nods, satisfied that he’s managed to remember. He can barely get a handle on indoor plumbing, but God so help him, he will drive. Cars are, ironically enough, his anchor, and he doesn’t know if it’s because who’s doing the teaching, or if because part of him has always enjoyed moving as fast as possible.

He presses down with his led foot, and swiftly, they are in motion. Magic,  truly.

“Just like riding a horse, right?” says Abbie.

“The mechanics are nearly identical, yes,” he says, understanding that she’d meant the statement in jest, and social protocol dictated he return the humour.

Her laugh is notably charming, and Ichabod feels the muscles of his own face relaxing into a smile.

“Okay, five laps around the parking lot,” Abbie says, and starts in on her breakfast, putting one foot up onto the dashboard.

Most mornings, Ichabod prepared her porridge or fried egg, but they’d both slept through the alarm. Hence, _7-11_.

Abbie is working her way through a package of miniature chocolate doughnuts at breakneck pace. Icing smears onto her lips in tiny streaks. Her tongue darts out to scrape the smudges away, but doesn’t quite manage it.

“Watch the road, Ichabod,” she says, one eyebrow raised.

“Right.”

He faces his head to the front, eyes on the abandoned lot. It takes a considerable amount of discipline not to turn toward her. He wishes to observe the quiet worry in her eyes, the smoothness of her skin, the poutiness of her lips.

It is a weakness. He is always doting, fawning, following, waiting. There is a feeling inside him, like devotion. All he knows is that he enjoys being next to her, and as long as she’ll have him, he’ll be there.

“You want some?” she says, thrusting the package of cardboard-flavoured pastry into his face.

He’d made the mistake of having one a few days prior. It is not an experience he wished to repeat. “I would rather starve.”

“What if I sort of flatten it out and make it look like a crumpet? That’s what English people eat, right?”

Ichabod has grown rather adept at the eyeroll.

“Are you feeling confident enough to drive us back home? I think I’ve got some brown food colouring we could put into some water? That’s tea, right?”

When she teases, it doesn’t hurt, because Ichabod only understands fifty per cent of what she says, anyway. It is enough to listen to her voice, to watch her out the corner of his eye.

The chocolate is still there, her lips are still pinkish-brown, here eyelashes still—

“Ichabod, watch out!” Abbie says, eyes suddenly agape.

Turning forward, he slams the brakes, the car screeching and coming to a halt just in front the light pole, the bumper a centimetre away. At some point, during the ordeal, he’d thrust his right arm across her chest.

“My saviour,” she says, but does not look particularly thrilled. “Maybe we should call it a day.”

“My apologies. You are gracious enough to take the time to teach me, and I repay you with lack of concentration. I resolve to do better.”

“Well, can you _resolve_ to open this for me?” she says, handing him a bottle made of green, synthetic material. Plastic, he recalls.

“Ah, to accompany your crumpets,” says Ichabod. “ _Sprite Zero._ Such a sophisticated palate you have.”

“Just open it, please, she says,” and he remembers the keloided scar across her palm, still there several weeks since their last run in with the Horseman.

Ichabod grips the white cap and twists hard, a hiss emanating from the bottle.

Then it explodes, a fountain of liquid spraying onto his face and Abbie’s in a gush.

The whole episode lasts no more than a few seconds,  but there are certain humiliations that linger. This is one of them. He is sticky. His shirt is wet and soiled. There is lemon-lime-flavoured carbonated beverage in his hair.

Abbie does what Ichabod has come to call the ‘slow blink,’ where she closes her eyes for several seconds, opens them, only to close them again for several more seconds.

“Was that some sort of demon?” Ichabod asks.

It is the right thing to say, because she laughs.

*

They go home to change, and it’s as claustrophobic as ever. Since there’s only one bath, he cleans himself up in the kitchen basin, scrubbing down his sticky chest with Dawn dish soap.

90% of Abbie’s hair products are actually food products, and she runs between the bathroom and the kitchen to grab coconut oil.

There are no such things as quiet mornings in this household, and Ichabod has grown to appreciate the constant bustle they make. It makes him feel unlonely.

This time when they’re out, she drives. This is how he prefers it. He likes to watch. She is a stunning creature, and it is rather soothing to catalogue her various expressions, each minute gesture. Abbie reaches up to pull a strand of hair behind her ear—but when realising there’s no hair there to pull, she grabs an already-tucked piece and secures it more firmly.

Each piece of her he collects, he feels less far away from home. Their togetherness is the most satisfying sort of relief.

 

 


	3. Expecto Patronum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read, kudosed, and reviewed. Your patience is so very appreciated. I really adore hearing from you. <3

When the rain starts to come down in droves, Ichabod opens his jacket and spreads it over Abbie’s head. She nestles into his side, head pressed to the crook of his arm. Their walk to the car turns into a jog, then to a sprint, each fumbling cold and wet into the front seats.

Abbie cranks on the engine and the heat. Bare arms.

“If I recall correctly there’s a blanket in the back,” Ichabod says, then hops out into the storm again. Inside the trunk is a basic survival kit, atop a stack of flannel blankets. He grabs one and bundles it under his shirt to keep it safe from the rain, returns to Abbie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Abbie says, clearly in one of her moods. It's probably sexist and old-fashioned of him to notice, the way her feelings emerge in strange, unpredictable patterns, hot then cold, soft then hard. Sometimes, he’s not sure what he’s done wrong to make her turn so mean. Other times, he understands perfectly. That pain does not behave according to rational trajectories. It is rarely kind. It jags and juts like the edges of a tooth.

“Here. You are shivering. I bid you take it—for my sake. It is unpleasant to watch you experience such discomfort.”

He hands her the flannel throw and she wraps it around herself tightly. “When I was a kid I used to pretend my sheet was an invisibility cloak. I was way too old for that kind of nonsense, but I did it anyway. I used to wish magic was real. I used to wish I could flick a wand and a Patronus would step between me and _it_ , the nightmares, the world, whatever.”

That she’s gone from taciturn to thoroughly candid in the space of seconds does not surprise him. It is the way of things.

“I have been meaning to ask you, Lieutenant; what is your Patronus?”

“I don’t know. A wolf?”

He nods. “Upon first reading, I was convinced my Patronus would be a fox or some other similarly cheeky animal. The movies, however, changed my thinking considerably. The visual spectacle of it all begs for something more dramatic. A murder of crows, I think. That’s mine.”

She smiles, mood lightened, looking quite silly ensconced in the plaid cover. “No fair. You can’t have multiple. One crow. One tiny crow. That’s all you get, witchya greedy ass.”

“That, and you,” he says.

She looks away, out into the storm. Lightening and thunder and all nature’s tightly-wound fury unravelling at once.

“We should wait until the rain passes to drive. It’s a shit show out there,” says Abbie.

“A shit show, indeed. In fact, a veritable Two Girls One Cup.”

As intended, she laughs—and he can say with some measure of certainty that it was almost worth sitting through _that_ particular cultural phenomenon to see the way the reference lights up her face.

“Your hair got wet, I’m afraid.” Now that the car’s warmed up from the heater, she bundles the blanket up and throws it over to his side, near his feet.

Abbie isn’t a fan of rain, sprinklers, humid days, spontaneous trips to the beach, or anything that causes her hair to undergo the peculiar phenomenon of shrinking and curling upon contact with liquid.

“I know,” she says, rubbing her eyes. It’s late, and they’re both tired.

“I can blow dry it for you if you’d like, once we return home.”

After recovering from the initial fear, he became rather keen on modern appliances. The blowdryer insured his hair—and Abbie’s—dried smoothly. He’d done it for her before. He would do it for her every week, if she required it.

“If you don’t mind,” she says.

“You know that I don’t.”

He knows that he’ll end up pressing it for her, too, and it doesn’t escape him that he’s become her beck-and-call boy. Ichabod’s not sure how she got things done before he moved in. What did she eat beside Ramen, fried bologna, and Lucky Charms?

She is self-sufficient, irritatingly so, but in the case of small household tasks, she’s incredibly enthusiastic about his participation.

It isn’t until half an hour later that the rainfall softens. A springy coil of hair rests over Abbie’s face. She’s sleeping, head resting on the window. Ichabod reaches out to pull it behind her ear, and the heat of her cheek is arresting. She is smooth and so-very-her, and the intimacy of it has him feeling quite—ignited.

Her eyes flash open, wide and uncertain. Even in the dark, he can see that they’re beautiful. If he were prone to such verbosity, he knows that this is the part where he would compare her to suns and galaxies and the goddess Aurora, all manners of exploding light. Instead he says, “Maybe I should drive,” and pulls his hand away.

It _is_ explosive, though, this feeling in his chest, and he’s not sure if it’s grief or love or remorse or what.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, hopping out the car. “You sure you’re okay to drive in the dark?”

Of course he is, as she is beside him, and she is his light.

Cliché though it may be. 


	4. Sleepwalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content ahead, so be warned, if that's not your cuppa. Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments. We'll finally be getting back to Abbie POV next chapter, but for now, here you are.

He waits for her in the car. She's run into the shop to stock up on eggs, milk, bread, and whilst Ichabod volunteered to accompany her, the days have grown achingly cold, and both of them agreed it would be wiser to leave the engine running.

To use an expression that is quite apt considering their recent driving lessons, Abbie is 'running on empty.' Lack of sleep, long hours on the job, and Ms. Jenny’s reappearance in her life is clearly ‘working her nerves.’ _She’s my sister, and I love her to death, and I know I’m not perfect either, but I won’t spend my life feeling guilty for the decisions I made as a child._ It is not his place to offer commentary, so he endeavours to offer support in ways that do not involve advice. In this case, it means being the one to sit in the car so that she can focus her mind on something other than demons, old familial wounds, Corbin’s demise.

Ichabod prefers whenever possible to be near to Abbie (for her protection), but it is not unenjoyable to sit in the dry warmth of the vehicle—not for the sensory experience,  per se; rather, he is intrigued by science of it all. Though he understands intellectually that the heater works via a process of convective heat transfer, it is rather novel to be warmed so thoroughly despite a distinct lack of fire. Were he not preoccupied by his duties as a Witness of the Lord, he’d return to school to study mechanical engineering.

As it is, he is taking a number of online courses via Coursera and Khan Academy. He is surprised to know that few of the basic principles has changed, though the applications have expanded widely.

Ichabod flips on the radio. On every station—advertisements. He has nagged Abbie about getting an iPad or a similar miracle device so that they might plug it into the auxillary system to listen to Spotify, but Abbie had responded, _ummm, you got iPad money?_

Finally, a song plays. Something about love and longing. It’s a little cloying, but he doesn’t mind. He lets his seat back, allows his eyelids to fall shut. In five minutes, he is in that nowhere space between total wakefulness and dreaming, in which his mind is aware of his surroundings, though has begun to travel elsewhere.

He has five seconds to be irritated that it’s _this_ dream again, before his subconcious fully takes over, and the world around him disappeaers. 

The dream:

Ichabod is driving south, on a road trip of sorts. He keeps a steady pace, and Abbie is in the backseat so that she can stretch out her legs as she sleeps. He thinks—somewhat nonsensically, considering logic means nothing in a dream—that she should be awake, as she’s his driving instructor, and whilst he’s managed to get the basics, he would appreciate her guidance all the same. “Lieutenant Mills, wake up,” he says.

She moans, shifts a bit, then whimpers, “Crane.”

Far away, in another level of consciousness—he can appreciate the absurdity of having a dream of a sexual nature _about_ someone else having a dream of a sexual nature.

But in the dream all he thinks is that his penis is hard, and he wants to slide it inside of her and _fuck_ her until he feels her walls pulse over his length hotly and wetly.

“Lieutenant Mills,” he says again. Then pauses. “Abbie.”

She would not wish him to overhear such a private moment, so he knows that he must wake her. “Abbie, it’s late, I’m pulling over.”

And then they’re in the motel, though nothing like what he’d been forced to stay in before rooming with Abbie, and then eventually securing his cabin. But a boardinghouse in the fashion of his time. There are two twin-sized cots, held aloft on flimsy wooden frames. There is a lantern, a chest, a Bible.

Abbie is dressed in a t-shirt and boy briefs, he in thermal long johns, shirtless.

She is dirty, and so he bathes her, using the small metal basin that he’s filled with a mix of hot water from the kettle and cool water from a nearby pail. He washes her feet, her ankles, her calves, pressing kisses over the skin that now smells of soap ( _her_ soap, the soap he smells on her every morning, which somehow, magically, also exists in 1770ish). Then he licks the brown skin. Nibbles her inner thighs. She widens her legs for him, and he smells her, that glorious scent that he’s never actually had opportunity to breathe, but it’s Abbie, and he therefore understands instinctively it is wonderful.

She laces her fingers through his hair, pulls. When he rubs his cheek against the black curls covering her mound, darts his tongue out to get the smallest taste, she sighs and jerks her hips up into him and says his name.

He teases her because he knows once she’s come she’ll be too sensitive to receive his touch, and he wants to savour this. He drags his tongue slowly from the bottom of her folds up to the top, parting them slightly, pressing inside and feeling the tight warmth.

“Ichabod,” she begs, and her grip on his head is harsh as she pulls him into her. It is growing more difficult to resist the urge to lap at her without restraint, to lick her clean, to feel her riding his mouth. He wants to feel lost, buried between her legs, surrounded by the musky scent of her and her panting cries.

He hears the lewd sound of his own growling as he presses his lips against her cunt, and because it would physically ache not to devour her, he does.

Then they are driving again, and this time it’s the English countryside, as he remembers it still, beautiful and green and manicured and foggy, dotted with the occasional stone house. They pull over somewhere far north of London. They picnic. She is looking wistful and her hair blows in the wind, and goodness fuck, she is absolutely breathtaking. In deference to his sense of propriety, they leave their clothes on. They mean only to kiss, but her tongue is soft against his, and he can hear her tiny mewls, and suddenly he is moving himself against her, still clad in undergarments and trousers—she, too.

Soon, they are in only underwear, she in sensible black knickers, and he in briefs, the fabric wet with his pre-come, and the cotton of hers soaked with arousal. He rubs his penis against her, still clad in cloth, and he feels the tightening in his groin that means he is close. It is all dreadfully reminiscent of adolescence—the frantic fumbling, the way they rub through their clothes—but it is still perfect. Moving his hips wildly, groaning, he explodes, ejaculating. Semen runs wetly down his thigh and he wishes it was inside Abbie and it’s dirty and wrong, but the thought of it pleases him still.

“Ichabod,” he hears, and there’s tapping against the window.

“Ichabod, come on.”

He awakes from his dream to find a perturbed-looking Abbie knocking on the window. Ichabod flips the lock, realising a second too late that his thighs are sticky. His trousers are thick enough that it doesn’t show through, but he moves his scarf over his lap as an extra measure of protection.

Abbie loads two paper bags into the back then hops into the driver’s seat. “I know you wanted to practise, but not tonight. Roads are getting kind of icy, and you’re not used to that.”

“No, it is quite all right,” he says,  intensely relieved.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll sleep at the cabin tonight?” she says, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. It’s strange to him how effortlessly she does it—drives—relaxed and poised, despite the rather difficult mechanics. 

Abbie has taken to spending the night occasionally at what Ichabod has come to think of as his place. He knows it’s because it brings her a certain amount of peace, to be surrounded by Corbin’s possessions.

“Yes, that’s all right,” he says, though it’s not, because it has become increasingly clear that his feelings for her have broached into the territory of the inappropriate. He should not be having dreams about what it would be like to bring Lieutenant Mills to climax with only his tongue. He should not wish to feel her sheathing his cock as he drives in and out of her, shooting his come inside as her orgasm racks her simultaneously.

“Are you sure? I just thought—once I get there and drop you off, it’ll be pretty late, and then it’s kind of a long drive back to my place,” Abbie says, and he knows it’s not the real reason, and she probably knows that he knows that it’s not the real reason, but they’ve become masters in the language of white lies, and see each other’s truths.

“Yes. In fact, I insist upon it,” he says, and he feels her relief. It soothes him to know that he can please her thus, and for the rest of the ride,  he manages to tamp down his feelings of anxiety.

He heads straight inside when they arrive. It’s not gentlemanly, the way he abandons her with the shopping bags, but it is paramount that she doesn’t see the evidence of his earlier indiscretion. He strips and throws his clothes into the hamper, then hops into the shower.

“Crane? You better not use up all the hot water,” she shouts. He can hear her, though the sound is muted.

“As this is _my_ abode, I will use whatever amount of hot water that suits me.”

Abbie comes in and flushes the toilet, and the water turns to ice. “Uh huh,” she says.

He’s grateful for the cold shower, however, when he comes to find her already changed, in pajamas remarkably similar to what she wore in his dreams—though she wears a jumper now ( _sweatshirt_?) instead of a t-shirt.

But those legs. Every inch is visible, and the shape of her buttocks is apparent via her underwear. “Can I borrow some flannel pants?” she asks. It takes a second for Ichabod to realise she’s referring to _trousers,_ but he finds a pair for her and tosses it her way.

He wonders if it would be uncouth to take the pajama bottoms in the morning and smell them, especially at the apex of the trouser legs, where her scent would likely rub off? Likely. He is deranged. He promises himself that he will wash them immediately so as not to commit such an indecent act.

“I’m off to kip,” he says.

“Good night,” says Abbie. “I’ll try not to wake you in the morning.”

She does have a tendency to wake up at an ungodly early hour. “As always, please alert me if you need anything at all,” Ichabod says. An expression flits across her face, and he can’t quite place it.

“Yeah, I will,” she says, then bites her lip.

When he eventually finds sleep, he dreams of her again, but this time he awakes before completion. The lights are out in the living room, and so he reaches down, stretches his palm under the waistband of his sleep trousers and grabs hold of his erection. Using his thumb, he spreads the small amount of wetness he’s generated over the length of his penis and rubs, trying not to think of Abbie, but managing to think only of her.

Each image (Abbie laid flat in the backseat, legs splayed, as he fucks her hard and makes her say his name, Abbie on all fours, leant onto her forearms, as he slides his tongue into her from behind, coming on her buttocks, having her perform orally on his cock) sends him closer to the edge. He finally finishes when he imagines taking her at the police station, in a storage closet, Detective Luke Morales not far away, walking in as Ichabod fucks Abbie against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressed into his arse.

Ejaculate is spread across his belly. He wipes it off with the sheets, then throws them into a ball at the foot of the bed.

This time when he goes to sleep, he does not awake, and though he dreams of her still, it is peacefully.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are so very cherished. Please take a moment to share your thoughts if it's not too much trouble.


	5. All I Ever Wanted, All I Ever Needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm an asshole, right? It's been ages. Sorry about that. I suck. No excuses. 
> 
> Unfortunately, there's no real smut in this chapter (though hopefully still some shippy goodness?). It's Abbie's POV so explicit sexual fantasies didn't seem to fit as well. Not to worry, though, because Ichabod's up next again and oh my God does he have a dirty mind. Boy is straight-up nasty.
> 
> And thank you so much for all the comments. So, so much. And the Kudos, and everything, yeah. It just makes me remember that there are people actually out there reading this. A nice reminder to me not to give up. The next chapter is theoretically the last, but IDK, I kind of got back into these two, so depending on what the mood of you readers is, I'll probably keep going.

If this were a movie, she'd buy him a car: something functional, dependable, modest-colored. An early-2000s Volvo. A Volkswagen.

As it is, Ichabod has no birth certificate, no social security number, no license. How do you register a car to someone who's been dead since before cars existed? And it's not like Abbie's got an extra ten grand or so lying around, anyway. So much for beautiful, cinematic endings.

Abbie avoids looking at the row of silver, used Nissans as she rides past the town limits, pressing the accelerator hard to make it through a yellow light. This is the world as it is now, right? Demon-hunting by night, car window-shopping by day? A new and very strange normal.

Ichabod is sitting outside the cabin with a cup of tea when Abbie pulls up into the driveway, wearing a heavy wool peacoat and a scarf, a knit hat pulled down over his hears. She can't tell if the curls of white rising into the air emanate from his breath or the hot liquid in the mug he holds, but either way, it makes her want to press up against him and feel his heat and be warm for once. Platonically. Because there's no way—no fucking away—she's going down that other road.

They're not even height-compatible. And she doesn't feel that way about him, period. Period period period. Ten periods.

Her boots crunch over the snow as she treads up the driveway, and she watches the ground so as not to slip. "Good morning, Abbie," Ichabod says, and she knows that feeling that rises up inside her when he says her first name _needs_ to go.

She's just not into that whole boy-meets-girl blah blah shit. The blue eyes. The accent. The long hair that should look grungy but just—for whatever reason—doesn't. It's all too cliché, and Abbie's never been one to go for the quote-unquote hot lead. Give her the pimply fat girl. The gangly, bespectacled exchange student with a thick Arab accent. The girls too brown to be cast as anything other than the cute, quirky best friend. The people that are beautiful, so beautiful, but not until you've unknotted the tangle that is media indoctrination to see it.

A piece of Ichabod's hair floats on the breeze, making him look younger and more vulnerable than what Abbie's used to. "Hey," she says, arms wrapped around her chest. She tucks her hands into the crooks under her biceps. She forgot her gloves.

"Forgive me. You must be freezing," Crane says, and stands, using his free hand to open the front door of the cabin for her.

"What are you doing outside, anyway?" she asks.

"I thought it prudent to keep visual tabs on your approach."

Yeah, she doesn't really know what to do with that, so she says nothing, enters the heavy warmth of the cabin. As usual, he's got breakfast going. Ichabod is such a Renaissance Man. It's not fair. He cooks and cleans and knows shit about art and science and literature (and like, how does he know more than her about history when he was dead before a good 200 years of it even happened?).

"I hope eggy bread is all right?" he asks, pulling a cookie sheet out of the oven, full of thick slices of warmed French toast. The cast iron skillet he used still sits on the stove, glistening with the remains of browned butter.

"You are too kind to me," she says, because it is mostly for her. He barely ever eats before noon.

"To say that I am too kind would imply that you do not deserve my utmost kindness, which is, of course untrue." He pulls out the chair for her, then sets a little caraffe on the table. "This is a maple pecan glaze, with just a dash of orange zest and vanilla bean."

Of course it is.

She supposes she's used to it by now—though she can't figure it out. Like, were men virtuosic chefs back in the 18th Century? Was that a thing? And the fact that he does it all for her is a can of worms she has no interest in opening. Is he being big-brotherly? Does he feel obligated because of all this Apocalypse crap? Or is it the third option, the one that scares her most—does he feel sorry for her? Is this a pity partnership?

She regrets how much she's divulged. Revelations become vulnerabilities, weapons to be turned on you later.

"You are pensive this morning," he says, his gaze unflinching as he spoons scrambled eggs onto her plate next to the French toast.

"Yeah, I was thinking you're almost at that point where you don't need lessons anymore. Driving, I mean." A lie, but it was in the back of her mind anyway so whatever.

"I, too, am satisfied with my progress. In fact, I have a proposal for you. A way to celebrate."

"Yeah?"

She scarfs down the French toast. It takes a lot of restraint not to lick the maple pecan glaze (with just a dash of orange zest and vanilla bean) off her plate.

"I think that we should hook up today."

It's a good thing she's not drinking coffee, because it'd be coming out her nose right now.

"What?" she says.

"I think that we should 'hook up.'" And he actually uses air quotes. "The weather will soon be too inclement for a long road voyage, and there is so much of this country I have not had the opportunity to see. So, let us hook up today and have a bit of a road trip. Since it's Friday, we'll have the whole weekend to explore."

Then it becomes clear what he means. "You mean we should play hookie today?" she asks.

"Right."

"Mhm," she says."All right. What the hell? I'm game. I can call in sick. You have to do all the driving, though."

"Of course. That's the whole point," he says.

And it's kind of sad that she's slept over at Crane's place—Corbin's place—enough times to have a stockpile of clothes there. She finds an old duffel bag and prays that by unzipping it she hasn't released some demon-spirit-thing, then fills it with the clothes Ichabod has washed and folded for her. Even her underwear and bras are in neat little pleated sections, smelling of fabric softener. She feels her skin flush, knowing that he touched them, his fingers on the lace, knowing exactly where those garments touched her body.

And no big deal, right? She's worn his boxers as pajamas before, right? And hasfucking rubbed herself off on his living room sofa using the thin, plaid cotton for friction, crying out in the night because she couldn't hold it in, hoping to God she didn't wake him.

It'd been a new low for her, and something she promised not to repeat, but yeah. It's normal. Put two sexual people together and there are bound to be a couple of sparks here and there. Doesn't mean anything.

#

Jenny was always the pretty one.

It's not like Abbie's got a complex about it or anything. It's just—when you grow up with that—it kind of sinks into your bones a bit. Fucked up though it may be, between the curly hair and light skin and wide, expressive eyes, fine bone structure, Jenny was the one who got her cheeks pinched at church, told she was going to make all the men crazy one day. Boys asked her to dances. Anonymous love notes showed up in her locker. Abbie can't count how many times she got asked, _so what's up with your sister? Is she seeing anyone or what?_

"Abbie?"

"What?" she says. Countryside blurs by in a collage of greens and browns and white. Snow-specked trees.

"I wish to hear the sound of your voice. That's all," says Crane. "I mean to say, you're very quiet today."

She shrugs, reaches out to open the vent so it blows more warm air on her.

"Have I , perhaps, inadvertantly done something to upset you? I beg forgiveness for my earlier misspeech. With infinite thanks to , I now understand the difference between hooking up and playing hookie. I want you to know that I would never seek to change the bounds of our present relationship so brazenly. I respect you greatly."

Abbie turns toward him, notices that he's stolen one of her elastics to put up his hair. She's sure it's hers because it's one of those black silicone ones that are hard to find. When she'd lent one to her sister the other day, Jenny'd said, _I asked for a ponytail holder not a cock ring._ To which, of course, Crane had asked, _a cock ring?_

"Stop staring at me. I find it disconcerting," says Crane, giving her a sideways glance.

"Says the King of the Long, Lingering Gaze."

He smiles, the mirth of it strange compared to the rigidity of the rest of him. Crane's still a little stiff and uptight behind the wheel. "I will have you know that long, lingering gazes are in an entirely different class than disconcerting stares. The primer is the result of awe and fascination. The latter is the result of scientific curiosity."

Abbie has to admit, he can be smooth as fuck sometimes, especially considering his aversion to 90s R&B. Like, Boyz II Men invented suaveness. How has Crane mastered the art of it so well when he can't even jam to K-Ci and JoJo's All My Life, the literal best slow dance song of all time?

"I'm bored. Let's play a game," she says.

"You'll be happy to know that preceding our journey I Googled traditional road tripping—not to be confused with _drug tripping_ —games. How about 'I Spy'?" he says.

"Okay, you first," she says, watching him.

"I spy something—"and then he stops, points forward. "Look," he says.

"Crane, the whole point of the game is that you're not supposed to actually show me what it is." But then she catches a glimpse of it out of the corner of her, sparks of highly pigmented pink and turquoise . Fireworks. "Oh," she says. "Yeah. Fireworks. It's weird to see them during the day, though. Usually a night time thing. Did you have those back then? Like, exploding sparkly light shows?"

They're getting close enough now that they can hear the popping and cracking.

"Ah, _illuminations_ , you mean," says Crane. "I'd heard of them frequently in my own time, but never witnessed them personally. A sight to behold. I can't imagine how beautiful they must be at night"

"We're probably near a carnival or circus something. Want to check it out?" Abbie asks.

"Indeed."

#

So it's a Renaissance Fare and Ichabod has never looked more at home, fake elves and faeries and all. Everyone thinks he's in costume. For a second, she can imagine him as he was in his own time. Worldly. Knowledgable. Sophisticated. Progressive. An adventurer politically, socially.

"A most pecular pastime," he says, but Abbie can tell he's really digging it. He gnaws on a smoked turkey leg at one of the picnic tables. She sits next to him, up on the flat surface, her feet on the seat, her butt parallel with his plate. "You do, realise, Lieutenant, that the table is designed so that you sit down here, and not up there." He's not really chiding, more like teasing.

"I can see more up here," she says.

"It is not an unpleasing view," Crane returns, and she sees his gaze flash toward hers before returning to his food.

"After the meal, I would like to take part in face painting. Will you join me?" he asks.

Abbie smiles, but ha ha, nope. "What are you thinking of getting done?"

"I saw some gold and silver arabesque designs that were rather nice, though I think they might flatter your skin more than mine," he says, then rubs his stubble, "especially considering I did not shave today."

She balls up the remainder of her funnel cake into a napkin then tosses it into the trash can, licks sugary glaze off her mouth and fingers. "Uh, I'm not really the get-her-face-painted type," she says, hoping not to come off too much like a killjoy. She's not against the paint, per se, more the idea of extended periods of time having someone draw on her face while she can't see. Jenny would probably say it's because she's a control freak.

"Of course, you have the privilege of foregoing such adornments, your face being what it is. Not all of us are so lucky," he says, and his smile is whatever the male equivalent of coy is. Mocking? Taunting? Something like a smirk.

"You think you're so funny don't you?" she says, and she can't help but laugh at his perplexed facial expression.

"I assure you I'm not being funny," says Crane, face straight. But she knows him well enough by now to understand when he's playing up his fish-out-of-waterness for humour.

#

The motel they stay at is not far from the festival. Small. One full-sized bed. Clean, though, and cosy.

There's a dance thing as the festival tonight. Fiddle and harp music and the like. More fireworks. Costumes.

"Do you think my attire is appropriate?" Crane asks.

He's got the same outfit on he wears everyday, so Abbie isn't really sure how she's supposed to answer. "You look good," she says. It's true. He's definitely has that whole lanky, lean white boy thing going on. Or as Jenny put it—talk, dark, and British. Yeah, that.

"And me? How do I look?" Abbie asks. If they're going to this thing, she figures she ought do it right. She's glad she thought to pack something a little less practical than her normal fare, even if she won't fit in among those in costume. She's wearing a tight, lacy dress, black. Not exactly modest or Church-approved. In fact, it's only a half-step up from her straight up Grinding at the Club ensemble. But she is wearing tights, which is basically the same thing as a chastity belt, so—all good with the Lord. "Well? What do you think?" she asks, and maybe she's fishing for a compliment, because damn, this dress makes her curves look good and is it so wrong to want someone to notice?

Crane's lips purse a fraction as he looks her up and down, settling finally on her eyes.

"I find your attire acceptable."

Right. Acceptable.

Acceptable is good. Acceptable is—acceptable. What else could she expect, anyway? They're partners. Professional partners. Friends. Bros. Buds. She's been there before, played this part, and knows the drill well.

"Okay, let's head out then," she says, slips her ID and a credit card into her bra and goes out the door. She decides the combo of icy streets and night time means she should drive. Besides, he needs a break. He'd gone for three hours today.

"The dresses of today are very different than the ones typical of my time period," says Ichabod, breaking the silence on the drive back to the festival. Abbie's not sure if she's glad for it not. She's never been one to mind the quiet.

"Not a big fan of them?" she asks. Not that she cares. Her dress is hot. Damn what he thinks.

"No. I am a fan—a fanatic? I can't quite parse that idiom. Am I using it right? Anyway, I admit I I'm rather keen on them. They're pleasing to the eye." He talks about them like they're sunsets or a flowers.

"You're a sweet guy," she says. Abbie decides she's glad they've stumbled onto this thread of conversation.

"Sweet?" he asks, and his fingers thump on the side door.

"Yeah. Nice. Kind. Wholesome. You know?"

His tone changes, sharper now, as he speaks. "I can't say that I agree. I'm not a wholesome man, unless the meaning of that word has shifted considerably over the span of the last two centuries, which is not unlikely. Tell me, Abbie, does wholesome connote a certain sexual purity and moral prudishness in your time as it did in mine?"

She looks over at him, sees he's got his eyes glued forward. "I guess you could say that, sure."

"Then according to that definition, I am not sweet, Abbie."

It's too dark to tell for sure, but she thinks she sees something moody flick over his features.

"Well, maybe sweet in your time is different than now," she says, and she means it to be placating even though it comes out condescending. "I mean, times change, right? One man's modest is another man's porn."

He doesn't say anything. She's pissed him off. Is it a bravado thing? Even in the 1700s men didn't want to be thought of as sweet and virginal and experienced? Not that she thinks of him like that. That's even what she meant, just—Jesus. Okay, Abbie, pull it together.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything. It was a compliment or something?" she says. She tries to get a read on him, but his face is still and cold.

"You have nothing to apologize for. I simply wish to correct any illusions you may have about me. Not for my sake. For your own."

"What the hell is that suppose to mean, Crane?" she asks. He's frequently cryptic, but this takes the cake. "Crane?" she calls out when he doesn't answer, she worries she pressed a button she didn't know was there. He's angsty and bitchy and snarky, but rarely moody, and it worries her.

The car slides over a patch of ice, jolting her back into concentration. Maybe it was a bad idea, going to this thing tonight, going on this roadtrip at all.

"What are you doing?" he asks because she's turning the wheel abruptly.

"Turning around. We're going back home. It's still early enough that we can get back to Sleepy Hollow in time for a decent night's sleep. Just got to pick up our crap from the motel first." The way it comes out her mouth, it sounds like it's supposed to be a punishment. That's not how she means it. It's just—some things are too much sometimes and she doesn't know. And better to retreat then try to fight without the proper armour.

"But we'll miss the festivities," says Crane, in his version of an indignant whine. Snippy.

"Frankly, since meeting you, I've had enough festivities to last me a lifetime," she says, and swerves to avoid a line of ice.

"Oh, I apologise, I didn't realize my involuntary awakening from a centuries-old curse burdened you so drastically. Perhaps I should return to my coffin and come back at a time that's more convenient for you."

"Please stop twisting my words. You're acting like a brat," she says, and they're both in the middle of weird, unmotivated tantrums that she's going to blame on something they must've ate earlier.

"Me? A brat?You're the one cancelling the trip. I've been looking forward to this," he says, deflating. "I thought we could bond, or whatever."

Hearing him say _whatever_ is enough to break the sulky spell, and she feels it bubbling through her before she can stop it, a snort and a laugh. "Bonding. Or whatever. How _sweet_. See, I was right."

He rolls his eyes, but it looks like some of his good humour has returned."Stop the car," he says, smacking his hand against the glove compartment. "Right now. Side of the road. Go."

"What?"

"Do it," he says.

She sighs, but acquiesces, pulling over to the shoulder.

"Now come with me." Ichabod opens the car door, walks off the side of the road to the woods surrounding either side of the street.

"Um, Crane?" she says. "I don't really do the whole run into the woods in the middle of the night ten miles from nowhere kind of thing?"

"I didn't take you for a coward," she hears. He's already disappeared into the trees. "Come on, Lieutenant."

"Goddamnit," she says, but follows him, making sure that the car's locked and that her cell phone has sufficient charge and service.

The moon and stars are bright enough that she can see his tracks in the snow.

"Are you coming?" he asks

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says. She tries to make it into a grumble, but the trill of excitement she feels makes it into her voice, and she sounds almost eager.

"Hurry, then."

She finally sees him in a small little grass clearing, perched on top a log, then removes a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

"What's that?" Abbie asks him.

"A task list for this weekend."

Abbie walks up to him and grabs it, uses her cell phone to illuminate the words: 1) Make a "road mix" 2) Write on the walls of a gas station toilet. 3) Play truth or dare 4) Straddle a state line 5) make "snow angels" 6) carve names into a tree on private property 7)—

Ichabod snatches the paper back. "No need to read the rest."

"Are these your ideas for bonding rituals?" she asks.

"I consulted a message board and asked for good ways for friends to spend time together on a road trip. Do you object?"

"No. It's," and she stops herself before saying _sweet,_ "It's cool."

"So how about it?" he asks.

"How about what?"

"Snow angels. I trust you are familiar with the concept?" Ichabod hops from the log onto the bank of snow, then lies down. "I watched a YouTube video for instructions."

Abbie gets down next to him, the snow already soaking through her tights and it's way, too, too cold. She's glad her coat is long enough to cover almost to her knees."Ready, set, go," she says, and starts moving. Their bodies make a scraping sound as they slide against the snow.

Abbie wonders exactly how ruined her hair is.

"Lieutenant?"

"Hm?"

"I am not sure I'm particularly fond of this ritual." The tips of his fingers brush against Abbie's, his arms outflung like wings.

"Me neither," says Abbie, but she doesn't stop moving her limbs, lit up on adrenaline and cold. Their fingers touch again, and then again. "Okay, up."

There they are, two perfect imprints.

"Very unlike the angels described in Ezekiel's prophetic visions. Nevertheless, beautiful," says Crane. Then her turns to face her, "Very, very beautiful."

He brushes snow out her hair and off her coat, palm going over the sides of her hips.

"There you are. Good as new," he says.

He keeps an arm around her back as they make their way to the car. She doesn't need him to—the ground's not that slippery—but she appreciates it anyway.

"I'm pretty tired," she says, clicking the unlock button.

"Let's return the motel then, but not to Sleepy Hollow. If you're amenable I'd like to continue our voyage," says Ichabod.

"Agreed. Though I was looking forward to showing off my dress. Maybe we could drop by still?" She turns the key in the ignition.

"Not necessary."

Abbie raises an eyebrow and watches Ichabod hook his phone into the auxillary plug, flips through his playlists until—

"Oh my God, you are a mess," she says, giggling, then laughing full on. It's none other than K-Ci and JoJo's _All My Life_ , and goddamn does this boy have game.

"Shall we?" he says, tilting his head back out the car.

She turns the volume up and joins him outside, the car doors left open so they can hear the music loud and clear.

"May I have this honour?" he asks, hand outstretched.

"Yep."

He grabs her palm, pulls her close until their bodies are flush. "It is my understanding that this is how one slow dances in the 21st Century?" His hands rest, well, not quite on her ass, but close. If he moved them inward even a centimetre…"You may rest your head on my chest," he says. "If you're comfortable."

Yeah, she's pretty comfortable with that.

Their bodies sway to the music, and her eyes fall shut, caught up in the heat of him. His breath is hot near her neck, prickling the skin, and even through their layers of coats and clothes, she thinks she can hear his heartbeat.

"Abbie?"

The tenderness in his voice is unlike him, and she finds herself pressing even closer. "Mm?"

"I understand you find me quite exasperating sometimes. You are similarly unfathomable to me during certain moments. But always, always, you must see know how absolutely dear you are to me. All right?"

She wants to say it back, because it's true, so true, but she's not always good at putting herself out there. It's something she's working on. Still, he seems to understand what she's left unsaid, and his hand moves up her hip to her ribcage to her shoulders and finally to the back of her head. His fingers tangle in her hair, clutching her close.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says, a mumble of words that get lost into the fabric of his pea coat.

The song must've been the last one on the playlist, because the speakers go silent, and now it's only the sound of their breathing that accompanies them as they sway.


End file.
